The Beauty Underneath
by TheProlificWriterGirl
Summary: About a year after being chased out of Paris by a mob, the Phantom starts to build a new life elsewhere. Shortly thereafter, his life is brutally interrupted, and the cloak of enigma that shrouds him is about to be pulled off. When the Phantom is met with the single biggest challenge of his life, will the challenge end it all, or will he grow a heart? Based on Phantom 25th anniv.
1. The Phantom

It was a bitterly cold, barren and windswept night, the streetlamps dimmed to the point of not being useful. The frigid, biting air seeped into every building in Paris, and the weather was not deemed fit for a casual nighttime stroll. Though this was so, a single solitary soul dashed about in the snow, treading just deep enough to leave light footprints in the snow, only to have them covered up by fresh snowfall. The solitary soul, a dark figure treading lightly, looked up into the dark night sky, speckled with snowflakes. They fell softly on to his awaiting face, but he could only feel half of them. He frowned in disdain, then whipped around, checking all around to verify that no one was coming anywhere near him. He squinted into the dark for a solid minute at least, until finally he was satisfied with his surroundings. Gingerly, he reached up to his face, pulling at a silvery-white mask until it receded from his face. Immediately he felt a surge of icy air, Winter's chilling breath, cold as death on the normally masked side of his face. He shuddered slightly at its touch, but took a deep breath through his nose and closed his big brown eyes as he took it all in. This was the one time he would ever even consider going out in public, especially without his mask on. What he was and what the rest of the world saw him as were two completely different things. On one hand, he thought himself an artist, a musically inclined genius of sorts. He knew he had a gift, but he had a curse just as powerful. His face. That was the world's justification for thinking of him as a monster.

In all honesty, he hadn't meant anyone any harm originally. That must've changed somewhere in the years he spent growing up in the bowels of the Opera Populaire. Something about having to hide your face, and in turn, yourself, from the rest of the world just because your face is a bit messed up is enough to drive someone to the brink of insanity. It was a life of little to no human contact, and what little human contact he got was usually forced. How could anyone blame him for doing the unspeakable things he did?

"Insensitive bastards," the figure in black mumbled to himself, crouching down to the ground to scoop up a handful of powdery snow. He packed it down and pressed it to his face in attempts to ameliorate his sudden throbbing headache. As he reflected further, he realized that when push came to shove, he _was_ to blame for the cruel things he did to others, murder and kidnapping atop the list. His swollen lower lip trembled as he continued to think about how the closest thing he came to perfection stood up and left him just hours before now. He soon found out why his headache was only getting worse as he realized that he was digging his fingers into his sensitive flesh on crying out the word "Christine" time and time again. He collapsed in the snow and doubled over on the ground, thrusting his tightly folded arms into his stomach as he forbid his tears to fall.

The stark beauty of the Paris landscape at night clashed with the horridness of his deformed face. He gently held two fingers to his lips where his angel had kissed him only moments ago. He wanted to feel that elated forever, but as overwhelmingly joyful as he was, he knew that it would not last.

"What goes up must come down," he said to no one but himself, as if he needed a reminder. He seriously considered his death as an option to end the pain, but something in him screamed that his angel might still need him. "Absurd," he reprimanded himself aloud, needing to hear himself say it to get it through his thick skull twice over. As stubborn as he was, it was very rare that he felt the need to argue with himself. "She has someone else now, there's no more need for me to be in the equation."

He turned around stealthily and beheld the burning Opera Populaire, the distant flames setting his eyes ablaze. What he had done was rash - dropping the chandelier was a risky move that probably killed people - adding to his death toll. He rolled his eyes and turned around again, lifting his head once more to catch the liberating snowfall for the last time before returning the tailored half-mask to his face.

Just like that, the figure in black stood up tall, grabbed his hat hastily, and whipped his black cape around his bony frame, disappearing just as silently and quickly as he came, like a thief in the night, only leaving an echo behind that said:

"I am the Phantom of the Opera."


	2. The Persian

**Okay, so if you haven't read the book, you may not know about the Persian dude here in this chapter, but regardless of whether you have any prior knowledge of him or not, I do give him a proper introduction/explanation, so you're all set here. :) **

**And a HUGE thank you to Guest, for being my very first reviewer! *applause* I really do appreciate the feedback, and yes, there will certainly be more story! **

**Thank you and happy reading!**

**~TPWG**

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

A Persian man rushed through the streets of Paris, trying to keep his frantic movements as smooth as possible. In his arms was a nondescript basket full of puffy quilted blankets. He caught the man at the ticket window just before it closed and panted out the words:

"One ticket for the ferry to America, please."

"Sorry monsieur, we're all booked," the man at the ticket window explained.

"I don't need the ticket then," the Persian said, keeping his tone low so he wouldn't raise a fuss. "I just need you to tell me how I can possibly get on that ferry."

"You'd need a ticket for that, monsieur," the man at the ticket window said again, "My sincerest apologies for the inconvenience." The man behind the window, no more than twenty, probably new to the job, was about to close down the booth, but the Persian caught his attention before he did.

"Tell me," the Persian inquired as he pulled out a handkerchief, "does this rag smell like chloroform?" The Persian reached across the counter and thrust the hankie in the man's face, smothering him with it. The man fell to the floor behind the counter in a heap, and the Persian looked at him sadly. "I wish I didn't have to do that, you were such a nice boy. Oh, and don't worry, you'll wake up in a few hours, spick and span." He replaced the handkerchief, dusted his hands, and discreetly reached for a ticket from behind the counter. He scratched out the destination and penned in the words "Etats-Unis" instead. After apologizing profusely over the ticket man's unconscious form, he hurriedly strode up to the dock and walked up the ferry ramp. He presented his forged ticket to the collector, who was at the present time yawning, and with little effort, got his ticket stamped, and boarded the ship. Smiling once he passed the guard, he went to find a roommate for the remainder of the trip.

"Salut, monsieur, would you perhaps be opposed to sharing a room for the trip?" He asked, approaching a French gentleman after thoroughly observing every move he made for several minutes. The gentleman glanced at the dilapidated Persian man and smiled warmly.

"Yes, I do mind, go bother someone else with your strange customs . . . and get some sleep while you're at it, you look like hell."

"Very well, enjoy your trip as well, you insolent, flea-infested carcass," the Persian quipped angrily, quickly shuffling onward to find someone else to 'bother with his strange customs'. He was eyeing the basket resting in his arms warily as he moved through the throngs of people socializing on the ferry. "Pardon moi, pardon moi, oh, excuse me monsieur," the Persian recited as he continuously cut through crowds of people. He was glancing down at the basket once more when he ran into another man, tall, blonde, and muscular, that did not speak his language.

"Es tut mir leid!" The man said, recoiling in horror as he realized he'd run into someone else.

"Excuse-moi?" The Persian replied, not quite sure of what the man had said.

The tall man cocked his head at the funny speaking little Persian. "Sprechen sie französisch?"

The Persian took a moment to process, then he realized the tall man was speaking German. "Ja," the Persian replied, taking great care to get his pronunciation right.

"Sprechen sie Englisch?" The German asked.

"Yes," the Persian answered, breathing a little sigh of relief that the man standing in front of him could understand what he was saying. "I'm going to need some clarification on what you said previously, if you wouldn't mind telling me what you said at the beginning of our encounter?"

"Certainly," the man replied in English, lacing each word with a thick German accent. "I said I was sorry for running into you, I didn't mean to harm you, then I asked you if you spoke French, because I thought I heard it."

"Indeed you did."

The tall German smiled brightly. "Where are you going?"

"America."

"No kidding, where in it? It's a fairly large country!" A hearty laugh spilled out of him from what must have been the pit of his stomach as he made small talk with the curious Persian.

"Wherever my old friend is. I need to meet him, deliver something to him," the Persian said, gently patting his basket.

"Oh, okay," the German said, nodding his head.

"For now, though, I need to find a roommate."

"Easy, I'm not sharing with anyone else, you stay with me!"

"You mean it?"

"Of course! Anything for a friend!"

The Persian accepted his offer graciously and without hesitation, wasting no time in landing a spot to lay his head down for the night.

"Come, come, I will show you," said the German, gesturing for the Persian to follow.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

"Nice room you've got here," the Persian observed as he was ushered into the cabin.

"You can set your basket-thing down here, if you would like," said the German, smiling amiably and patting a spot on the bed. There were two, each drawn up in white linens and red fleece blankets in case of a cold spell. The walls were wooden, with circular windows on each side of the cabin. "As for the room, it will do for several days," the German man replied, removing his shoes and sitting down on his bed. Suggestive reasoning made the Persian do the same, and soon he sat down, his basket of blankets resting against his side. "Your name?"

"Pardon?" The Persian said, looking up, half-dazed.

"What is your name?" The German asked again. "There must be some name you are known by."

"Ah, right," said the Persian, as he removed his astrakhan cap from his head. "My name is Khan. Nadir Khan. I was the Daroga in Persia before I . . . moved to Paris."

"My name is Audwin Albrecht, I am a traveler."

"Traveler, eh? Where have you been?"

"I think the more appropriate question is where _haven't_ I been?" Audwin laughed heartily; he seemed to make the cabin floor quake. Nadir clenched his teeth and his eyes darted uncomfortably from side to side, causing Audwin to suddenly cast him a confused look. Nadir grabbed the basket, hurriedly standing up and moving towards the door of the cabin.

"Be sure that your travels interest me, but I have to go take care of something at the moment, and it can't wait. I'll be back later."

Audwin sat on the bed, his eyes trailing the queer Nadir as he left the room.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

Later that night, Nadir was sitting on his bed in the cabin alone, his arm swallowed up inside the basket that was currently sitting upon his lap.

"What is inside your basket?"

Nadir's head shot up suddenly at the voice, and he realized it was Audwin. He reeked of liquor. "Just my provisions for the trip, that's all," he said.

"Anything good inside?"

Nadir thought for a moment. "Nah, nothing special or anything." He let out an undetectable sigh when he thought the game of twenty questions was over.

"Why do you keep it so close then?"

Nadir discreetly rolled his eyes in annoyance. "I suppose because it's all I have," Nadir explained, shrugging off the question as casually as he could.

"I understand."

"Good. Then you'll kindly stay away from my basket at all times, but definitely stay away while you're drunk."

"Is there something dangerous inside?" Audwin teased.

"No, but you're drunk, so anything could be dangerous in the wrong hands."

"Sure thing," said Audwin, "as I'm sure a basketful of feathers could be rather dangerous in my possession."

"I am not sure you are seeing my point, dear friend."

"What am I not seeing? Do tell me."

"What you are not seeing, dear friend, is that _this _is the basket of life and death! Life and death! Tamper even the slightest with it and you shall pay a heavy price."

"So your little basket thing goes from being 'nothing special' to 'the basket of life and death'? You are most queer, my Persian comrade, most queer."

"So I am. That still gives you no right to go snooping through my basket." Nadir leaned in closer to the intoxicated Audwin, his voice almost at a whisper. "Listen here, you monstrous lump of German flesh, you keep off of this basket, got me?"

Audwin appeared unfazed by the insult. "Fine. I'm off to bed, goodnight to you and your basket," Audwin huffed, sending a puff of pungent liquor stench into the room. He decided that relenting in his rapid-fire questions for the time being would be a wise move, especially in his intoxicated state, when his brain was all static and fuzz.

"You as well," Nadir replied, "have fun with that hangover you'll have by morning. I suppose that it's a blessing and a curse that you won't remember any of this encounter come tomorrow."

By the time Nadir said his parting words for the night, Audwin was already out like a light, on his bed, asleep. Nadir chuckled and said, "Queer little German."

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

"Oh God in heaven, my head!"

"What about it?"

Nadir heard a moan from Audwin's side of the room. "It huuurts," he said, clutching his head with both hands and rolling over on the mattress repeatedly.

"I'm afraid there isn't much I can do for you at the present time - you have a hangover and I'm preoccupied."

"You are terribly kind, my friend. Terribly kind."

"I realize that I'm overflowing with affection," Nadir murmured, speaking softly as he fondly gazed into his basket. Audwin saw his arm move slightly in the basket, like he was fishing around for something. "On a scale of one to ten, how painful is your headache?" He asked offhandedly.

"Excruciating!"

"I see," said Nadir, smiling. "You still haven't gotten the fuzzies from the alcohol out of your system yet."

"Huh?"

"Exactly. You are cloudy, Audwin, very cloudy." He smiled, getting up from the bed. "How about I go get us each some black coffee, it will help with your headache."

Audwin mumbled something unintelligible through his pillow as he slammed his face into it, and Nadir chuckled warmly. He casually whistled as he grabbed his basket and walked out of the cabin.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

"Afternoon, weak one."

"Wait whaaat? How'm I weak?"

"Your speech is still clearly slurred, you've slept through your hot coffee window, and it is now-" Nadir pulled his sleeve back to check his watch and said, "two o'clock in the afternoon. Can your poor liver not handle a little liquor?" He chuckled lightly.

"S'ppose not."

"Ah well, you should be better after some more sleep and coffee." Nadir smiled and started to walk away, but turned around and said, "We'll be making landfall within the next two days, so be prepared for it." Audwin gave him a thumbs up and a toothy smile, so Nadir strode out of the room.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

"Land! I see land! Can you see it too?"

People on the ferry could see the Atlantic coast from their spot on the boat. They were getting into a celebratory mood, going up and asking the bartender to pour them a shot of whiskey, or gin, or rum, toasting to the land of the free and the home of the brave, and their planned farewells to sealegs and sickness. Nadir got caught up in the excitement, willingly downing a round of scotch on the house. He thanked the bartender, set the glass on the counter, and was about to walk away from it, but was politely coerced into asking the bartender to refill it. He downed yet another glass and was met with loud cheering. He could feel the weight of the world roll off his shoulders with every glass he drank. He looked around at the crowd that he was attracting and noticed the French man that sneered at him when he first boarded the ferry.

"How about this for some strange customs, eh?" Nadir taunted loudly, much to the man's embarrassment. He could tell he struck a nerve when the man glared at him, then glared at the floor, massaging the back of his neck with his right hand. Nadir was poured yet another drink and once again he downed it in one gulp. He was feeling really light, like he could jump around without care . . . "Wait!" His mind raced. Light, he felt light, _too _light. He glanced down at his side and his eyes widened immediately.

The basket was gone.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

**Please remember to rate/review, I feed off this stuff, like a vampire off of blood or something like that. Anyway, let me know what you think thus far! Sorry if this chapter was a bit of a snooze, expositions typically are, it'll heat up, I promise!**

** ~TPWG**


	3. The Prima Donna

**Hey guys, it's me again, I know I posted this one quickly, but my next post may not be _as_ quick as my last few, as I have two research papers due within the next few weeks, and this time I must try not to procrastinate . . . we'll see how well that goes. **

**Anyway, enjoy the chapter, things are about to get good here in the land of Fiction. Happy reading!  
**

**~TPWG**

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

"Viscount? Viscount! Viscount!"

A young man with eyes of sea blue green turned around and said, "You called me?"

"Ah, yes, yes we did," the managers sputtered as they caught up with the Viscount.

"What for, did you need something?"

"We wanted to congratulate you on Miss Daae's performance," Monsieur Andre explained, moving his hands about as he spoke. "She was simply stunning tonight!"

"Well thank you," the Viscount blushed, "but as I recall _she _was the one singing tonight, not me, so I think it would be more appropriate to congratulate her."

"Certainly! We shall do so on the hour when she comes out of her dressing room!" The managers chanted in unison, happy as clams that their business was back up and running with Christine at the helm, as their enchanting Prima Donna.

This was the Opera Populaire's first grand re-opening show they had put on since the "Don Juan Disaster", as the newspapers had called it. Carlotta had returned to Spain after Piangi's death, leaving the chorus-girl-turned-opera-star as the only successor to the stage. She accepted the position graciously, surprising many people that heard about what happened to her. "Emotionally shattered Prima Donna is set to return to the Opera Populaire after its reconstruction," the newspapers all read.

"Christine Daae, only 18 years old, has just confirmed her return as Prima Donna to the renowned Opera Populaire after the "Don Juan Disaster", during which the Opera House was set on fire, the chandelier dropped to the floor, and the singer was kidnapped from the stage before the eyes of a full house, all believed to be the master plan of the 'Opera Ghost'. The traumatized singer has spoken little of the incident since its occurrence, and those bold enough to confront her about it have been fended off by Raoul de Chagny, Daae's fiance. Although her return is shrouded in mystery, it is greatly anticipated by show-goers all across Paris."

"_Publicity_, Andre, free publicity," Monsieur Firmin said as he attempted to console Monsieur Andre about the myriad of newspaper articles concerning Christine Daae and the Opera house.

"At least we have a cast," Andre shrugged, grabbing yet another newspaper from off the table. "Can you believe how lucky we are to have such a loyal following?"

"Hardly! Sometimes I find myself thinking it's all a dream, then I realize I'm awake. This was a wonderful business investment indeed! The richest man in Paris, at least, our skills in business, and a Prima Donna fit to make history!"

"And the best part?" Andre asked, grinning.

"No more Opera Ghost!" They both shouted happily, hugging each other for several seconds before realizing how awkward that looked, and they let go of each other, each clearing their throats and dusting themselves off, avoiding each others' gaze.

"Ahem," a sweet voice sounded near the doorway, causing Andre and Firmin to jump in fright. They both glanced at the doorway, and their hearts sank when they saw who it was. It was Christine.

"Hello, Mademoiselle," said Andre and Firmin as they hung their heads.

"Hello, messieurs, I was curious about what you thought of my performance tonight. Raoul said you two went and congratulated him!" She laughed daintily. "Anyway, I just wanted to know what your thoughts were on opening night."

"You were enchanting, Mademoiselle," they said, quickly reaching for a bouquet of pink peonies and handing it to her. She took them in her hands and thanked them for the flowers, blushing lightly under her stage makeup. They spoke briefly with her about the aspects of her performance that they found to be best and bid her goodnight as she walked out of their office to go find Raoul. "Such a sweet girl," they sighed, "Such promise."

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

"Little Lotte!" Raoul exclaimed as he saw Christine approach. He rushed up to her and held her in a gentle and loving embrace. She giggled with glee and threw her arms around his neck as he inhaled deeply, smelling the shampoo and hair product in her abundance of glossy chocolate curls. She smiled warmly, her light green eyes conveying her deep happiness. "You sang beautifully tonight," he said, kissing her once on her cheek.

"Thank you," she replied, "but you missed."

"Wait, what?"

"You missed," she repeated, grabbing his shirt collar and pulling him into a kiss, lip to lip, not missing that time. Once she released his shirt collar and their lips parted, Raoul looked at her, blissfully stunned.

"Wow."

"Wow what?"

"I did NOT know you had that in you."

Christine shuffled her feet around for a moment. "I suppose you do now," she said, blushing once more.

"I have something for you," said Raoul, "so don't go anywhere yet."

She gave him a slightly apprehensive look as he walked away, and when he turned around, he held up his arms up and mouthed the word _"what?"_. She giggled and he exited the room, soon returning, but this time with a face full of flowers.

"Raoul!" Christine gasped. "Those are beautiful!"

"I'd hoped you would think so," he replied, giving them to her. It was an armful of pink and white, long-stemmed roses, wrapped in sheer, light pink material. Flowers in one arm and Raoul in the other, she set off to her dressing room to change out of her fanciful, gauzy, and elaborate costume and into an evening gown more suitable for a night out on the town.

Raoul stopped Christine for a moment just before she arrived at her dressing room, saying he needed to go fetch a carriage. She nodded, kissing him lightly before they went their separate ways. As he strode off into the lobby of the Opera Populaire, she turned the door handle to the Prima Donna dressing room, once inhabited by Carlotta Giudicelli. Her mind took her back to the time when she was more or less forced to answer to Carlotta, and how different her overall scenario was now.

"You did wonderfully, my dear," a woman said, interrupting Christine's suddenly empty thoughts. She turned around to face the woman who spoke and realized that it was her surrogate mother.

"Madame Giry!" She cried happily, rushing forward to embrace her. "Thank you so much!"

"You're welcome," she replied, smiling tightly, as was normal. Christine knew that Madame Giry was not one for showing an exuberant amount of outward affection, but she also knew that she loved her like she loved Meg - as a daughter, her daughter. Christine wrapped her arms around her surrogate mother and sighed happily.

"Tonight has been amazing," she said.

"I'm sure it has," Madame Giry replied sweetly. "I will leave you alone now, let you get changed."

"Raoul is taking me out to dinner tonight to celebrate, then we're going to go to the Louvre!"

"I hope you have a wonderful time, dear."

"Oh, Madame Giry, I'm positive we will, I think I am one of the happiest girls in Paris tonight!"

Madame Giry smiled tightly once more, resting a hand on the bubbly Christine's shoulder. Her eyes said everything without any need to open her mouth. Her eyes conveyed worry, and a general message of "be careful", was sent and received.

"Don't worry," Christine comforted her, "I will be."

With that, Madame Giry left Christine's side and she entered the dressing room, being almost overtaken by the powerful floral scent that consumed the giant room. Flowers oozed out of every crevice in the wall and spilled over onto every bare surface that made itself available. Christine gazed around the dressing room, wide-eyed, waiting for a particular flower to catch her eye, to pique her interest. Not one flower did. As she explored the room, every single flower looked and smelled the same - all pink, all overpowering. She sighed and went to her enormous closet, thumbing through her gowns until she found the perfect one.

It was a navy colored evening gown, strapless and low-cut, exposing a bit more of her back than was normal. The dress was slightly scandalous, but Christine felt wonderful in it. She felt like she could breathe. As quickly as she could, she detached the puffy sweeping skirt that attached to her dress underneath. Once out of that, she wriggled out of the main dress and did her best to escape the clutches of the hoop skirt and suffocating bodice that trapped her. Once she was freed from all of the costume, she took a deep breath and exhaled blissfully. She took the navy evening gown off of its hanger and slipped into it. Its sheer material fell over her, flattering her curves and fitting her like a glove. She walked over to her floor length mirror and smiled - she looked stunning. The dress sparkled when it caught the light just right, and the dress had a long slit that traveled up to her thigh. She slipped into a pair of navy pumps she bought with the dress and realized that she was still wearing her stage makeup. Gasping slightly, she went over to her vanity and removed the obnoxious stage makeup that was caked on her face, reapplying a darker shade of eyeshadow to her eyelids and some heavy eyeliner. A touch of foundation, a quick dash of rouge, and two swipes of mascara, and she was ready for a night out on the town. Grabbing her matching clutch, she checked herself in the mirror once more, verifying that she was ready for a night of splendor and joy with the love of her life. As she looked into the mirror, though, her fleeting heart sank from cloud nine to the pit of her stomach when she thought about what, or rather who, got her here. Her green eyes glistened with soft tears, full of painful memories regarding the only friend she had who really understood her deeply.

Christine loved Raoul, simply, wholeheartedly, blissfully, since childhood. She knew for a solid fact that he loved her back with the same kind of unadulterated passion. Her angel, though, was a different kind of love, one struck up and brought about by fear and angst. She didn't love him the same way she did Raoul, and as soon as he figured it out, he let her go. For this, she couldn't thank her angel enough. He was her mentor, her guardian, her tutor, and to continue as Prima Donna without him there scared her and comforted her at the same time. Opening night went remarkably well, no hiccups or anything of the sort. Even so, she simply felt empty. Empty thoughts, empty smiles, empty eyes without gleam or sparkle. Just empty. Raoul made her happy though, and thoughts of him filled her up inside again as she realized that she needed to get going. Hurrying out of the room, she closed the door behind her, locking it and turning around to face the world.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

As she ambled through the crowds of people in the opera house, she couldn't help but overhear typical Parisian gossip and chatter about a whole fat lot of nothing. She started to tune everyone out as she walked through the lobby, going outside to meet Raoul, but a particular conversation caused her to slow her pace and listen for a moment.

"Yes, Christine, who else do you think I'm talking about?" A woman said in a thick French accent.

"Well I wasn't sure, I just got here!" A man said, potentially her boyfriend.

"Fine. What did you think of her performance?"

"I felt as if it was missing something . . . I can't pinpoint what it is, but something was missing tonight, something felt off about it," he replied, wringing his hands, "I've been to a few of her other performances, and this one was more hyped up than any of the others, yet I just didn't think it was as enthralling as her others. Poor girl."

"Indeed," the girlfriend agreed, casually reaching for something inside of her purse. "Probably traumatized after the 'Don Juan Disaster'," she finished, reapplying her lipstick.

"Probably," the boyfriend trailed off. "Can you blame her?"

"I suppose not," the girlfriend said offhandedly, popping her lips and giving him a quick peck on the cheek, leaving him with a red kiss-shaped mark on his face. He blushed and wrapped his arm around her, escorting her somewhere unknown to the now trembling Christine. She started to feel dizzy, like her world was spinning around her and she couldn't escape it.

_"Missing something?"_ She asked herself. _"What'd I miss?"_

"Mademoiselle Daae?" A middle-aged man asked, donning a concerned expression. "Are you feeling alright?"

Christine gasped for breath and struggled for words. "Quite alright, thank you," she said meekly, hoping that this would warrant her the opportunity to leave the presence of the multitudes, her only wish now to be out of the spotlight and alone, somewhere she couldn't be found. Once she felt remotely steady on her feet, she treaded lightly through the lobby, her head down, like a ghost, longing for the comfort of Raoul's steady and loving arms, holding her close to his steadily beating heart.

Survivors of the "Don Juan Disaster" never returned to the Opera Populaire out of fear that their lives would be threatened again by opera, stating that they were already traumatized enough for one lifetime. The only reason that the Opera Populaire did so incredibly well on their grand reopening night was because even though they lost a chunk of their former business due to Don Juan, they attracted a whole new type of people to the opera house because of it. They attracted people who sought out mystery, enigma, and all things dubious. Even though there was no more Phantom, the story still stood, and people wanted to explore the opera house to say they had been, almost as if it was a badge of honor. These people were what kept Firmin and Andre's business endeavor running, much to their delighted surprise, and so they welcomed this, supporting the recent lore and surcharging those who wanted to sit in Box Five. Of course, the owners, in conjunction with Raoul and the French police, sealed off the intricate tunnels and passageways below in order to avoid future problems with people getting curious, but they were able to keep the mystery alive, without the looming threat of danger. Their only challenge with this was the one person who was positively affected by the Phantom. Christine Daae. They desperately needed their leading lady back singing Soprano if their business was going to bounce back, so in order to appease both the French public and their lead singer, they tried their best to keep Christine far away and oblivious to their business tactics regarding her fallen angel.

"Little Lotte!" A voice shattered her wandering thoughts. Raoul was standing directly in front of her, gently holding her shoulders and shaking her lightly to bring her back to reality.

"Yes? Oh God, I'm sorry, I . . . I didn't mean - didn't want-"

"Shh, Little Lotte, it's alright, you don't need to say another word, I'm here," said Raoul as he attempted to soothe her. He wrapped her up in a hug and kissed her lightly on the nape of her neck. "Come with me, Christine, please," he pleaded.

Silently, she acquiesced, nodding and falling into step with him as they exited the lobby and got into a carriage. He would protect her, she knew this without a doubt, but to what extent could he do so? Could he go so far as to protect her from her own thoughts? Perhaps, but maybe not. Even though her angel let her go, he was still inside her mind.

"I love you Raoul," she said, breaking the silence.

"I love you, Christine," Raoul replied softly, caressing her delicately on the cheek and raising her chin just enough for her lips to touch his. They kissed for a moment, then withdrew, silence reigning supreme for the rest of the ride.

Christine's thoughts consumed her for the entire ride through town as they sat in silence, and as they arrived at their destination, she realized what she was missing.

That one, blasted red rose.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

**Hey again, hope you enjoyed the chapter, sorry if you don't like RaoulxChristine, but as you continue to read my story, you will find out why I did this. Mwahaha! Now that we have covered the exposition, things are going to get much more interesting from here on out, so please review, let me know what you think! Thanks a bunch. :)**

**~TPWG**


	4. Welcome to New York

**Hey guys, it's me (duh), back again with a new chapter . . . that was really slow in coming. It was being a problem child. Oh the horror. **

**Anyway, read it and let me know what you think, it might seem better to you than me, but sometimes I just feel obligated to cover stuff in a story that is more back story than anything, and this is my first attempt at writing in order, so naturally it's making me want to SCREAM! **

**A ginormous thank you to River Price, ElauraGrave, tinkmasked, and Guest for reviewing my story, I really appreciate it. :)  
**

** Read and review, and hopefully my next chapter will restore my faith in my ability to write in order. Happy reading! **

**~TPWG**

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

**_New York City . . ._**

"Blasted thing, does anything _actually_ work around here?" A growl issued from the next room over, and a young woman, startled by this outburst, turned her head from her knitting cautiously. She removed it from her lap and set it off to the side of her, pushing herself up off of the loveseat she was occupying. Approaching the doorway, she stuck her head in and asked,

"Do you need any help?"

The Phantom poked his head out of the room and studied her. She had long, ash blonde hair pulled back into a French twist-style updo, complimented by her cool, calculating, and stormy grey eyes, and cotton candy pink lips that looked fit for kissing as they spread into a soft smile. He smiled back a little too sweetly. "No, unless you possess some magical capability to make the appliances in here work!" He was starting to talk with his hands, and her eyes followed as his arms waved around madly, mimicking the rage boiling inside him. He glared at her momentarily with a golden fire in his eyes unbeknownst to her, causing her small smile to vanish as she shrank back and left the room. "Why is everyone so nosy?" He asked himself, keeping his voice at a hushed tone so his neighbor in the next room wouldn't pick up on the heated conversation he was having with himself. "What did I do to them to deserve this? I swear, it gets worse every single day, they just pry me like a crowbar! No reservations at all!" He continued to mumble and rant, angrily kicking the oven that was malfunctioning beside him merely because of its proximity, but the oven chimed and the light inside it clicked on, the heating coil warming up simultaneously. "You have got to be kidding me," he said in disbelief, his eyes widening as he massaged the back of his neck absentmindedly. Crouching down to where he was at eye level with the temperamental appliance, he softly said, "If this is the way you're going to be, why didn't I kick you sooner?"

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

"Job-hunting? Is that what they call this?" Phantom mumbled incoherently as he lay sprawled out on the bedroom floor, flipping the page repeatedly that made up the one page phone book he'd found at the concierge desk on the main floor of the apartment building. "This is madness." He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand and sighed.

"Any luck so far?"

Phantom's head shot up at the new voice and realized that his female neighbor had returned, perhaps trying to get in his good graces, but going about it in all the wrong ways.

"Why did I give you a key again?" He asked her - a rhetorical question that mildly upset her, though she tried not to show it. After watching his female neighbor hang her head for a solid minute in silence, he caved, attempting to find a way to salvage the conversation. He let a long, drawn out sigh escape his lungs as he cleaned his pen and tossed it against the floor in frustration. "I don't see how this is supposed to be helpful, it's one page, one section on it that pertains to what I need, for all of New York City, and I haven't the faintest clue how to operate the 'phone', as you call it."

His neighbor's head slowly rose as he spoke to her, and she contemplated what to say next for only a moment. "Would you like me to teach you?" She asked him softly, tilting her head and gazing at him. She could only see the masked side of his face from where she was standing, but she soon saw both sides as he stood up, dusted himself off, and faced her.

"Would you?" He asked her, thoroughly vexed by her optimistic nature and willingness to offer up her services when they were needed. She held out two mugs of herbal tea as a peace offering and he tentatively reached out and grasped one of the piping hot mugs, bringing it from her hands to his. Watching her warily the whole time, he brought the mug up to his swollen lips and blew off the layer of steam that was swirling around the surface. He took a sip and closed his eyes for a fleeting moment. "This is good," he said, his eyes conveying mild shock and surprise. "How did I not know this existed?"

His neighbor chuckled quietly at him for a moment, then followed suit, taking a sip from her own mug. "It's pretty good, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he agreed, his words escaping him. "Exquisite."

"Ada," she said, extending her free hand to that of her neighbor.

"What?" He asked her, confused once more.

"I'm Ada, she repeated. "Ada LaRue."

"Oh," he replied, his eyes widening at the idea of having to shake a stranger's hand. He stared at her hand for what felt like hours as thoughts bounced around inside his head regarding all the ways that this particular situation could go wrong. "_Who knows?" _He thought, his neurons firing on all cylinders. _"If I cave and shake her hand now, that could let in a world of trouble later, and on top of that I don't like touching people, people make me nervous, really do NOT like people-"_

"Hey!" Ada shouted, waving her hand in front of his face. "What are you doing?"

Phantom snapped out of his trance at the sound of Ada's sharp voice and seized her wrist as it was waving around in his face. Gripping her tightly, he spat four words at her like venom. "Don't . . . do . . . that . . . again . . ." he seethed, every ounce of him screaming fitfully at the fact that she had breached his defenses as easily as one snaps their fingers. His eyes searched her for any sign of an apology, but he got nothing. He finally let her go and acquiesced with her polite demand, gently relinquishing his trembling hand for her. After a brief moment of meditative thought, he simply said, "Erik Wren."

As she firmly shook his hand and stormed off, only one thought raced through his mind.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

_**Several hours later . . .** _

"So you mentioned that you like the arts?" Ada said, twirling a loose strand of blonde hair while waiting for his affirmation. She was sitting in the loveseat again, this time cross-legged with a mug of coffee one hand and a strand of hair in another.

"Mhm," Erik hummed, taking a cautious sip from his own coffee mug, as Ada had given into his persuasive nature and poured him some as well, deciding to forgive him. "Do you?"

"Of course, I play in the symphony!"

"Wow, really?" Erik asked, leaning forth in sudden interest, "What do you play?"

"First," she said, leaning in closer, "what do you like to do?"

"I like to do all sorts of things, really. I play piano and violin, I compose, I sing, I had a small acting gig-" he stopped talking suddenly, "but that didn't last long. I also sketch and I'm a quick learner, so I can pick up on most anything thrown my way. I love music with everything in me."

"That's remarkable," said Ada, gawking slightly. She continued. "I just play the violin."

"You do?" He asked, giving her a peculiar look. "Playing one takes skill, don't belittle yourself by saying you 'just play violin'. It isn't fair to you _or_ the violin."

She smiled, and when she spoke again, her voice was warm and sweet and kind, just like her smile. "I've played it since I was a little girl. The only reason I'm here is because of my passion for music. Women aren't allowed a lot of leeway here, and I'm considered a radical . . ." she trailed off until her voice was merely an echo, but Erik still looked confused, so she elaborated. "You really have been kept in the dark, haven't you? Women in this day and age don't have much freedom to do as they choose, we're considered the 'subordinate gender' or whatever the newest term people coin for us is. I'm really not that concerned. I'm here on musical scholarship and am in the symphony, playing violin. A great many people see me as queer, but I prefer to carve my own path in life, even if it's an odd one. I'd rather not let others' opinions dictate the direction of my dreams, and I sure as hell don't want to live to be some subdued housewife who raises my husband's ten kids while he goes and has multiple affairs behind my back. That's a sorry life to lead, and I'll be damned if I'm caught up in the middle of it."

"Wow," was all that Erik could say. He sat in silence, waiting on the right words to come to him. "That," he said, "was one hell of a soliloquy."

"It's true," she said quietly. "I don't want the high point of my life to be my marriage, and I don't want ten kids, and I don't want some unfaithful husband. I've been here long enough to establish myself and become respected for my skill; I won't give that up for much, if anything at all." She quietly sipped her coffee, slurping it slightly once she reached the end of the mug. "The only reason I was - and still am - hospitable to you is because I felt you were different somehow - please don't think me too naive for saying that."

"No, no, I'm definitely pretty different, you got that one right on the money. Just for the record, though, I'm not a big people person in general, but I hold women in a high respect and wouldn't for a second consider them - or you - subordinate."

"Good," she sighed, truly relieved. "I think I might have a job just for you." She glanced down at her empty mug and looked up at Erik. "Wanna refill?"

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

"Excuse-moi?" Erik's soft, heavenly voice rang out in the lobby of an empty Manhattan concert hall, its melodious hum reaching the rafters high above him. He cleared his throat, and tried again, this time in English. "Excuse me, is anyone there?"

"Yeah, someone's here," an older woman said as she filed her nails with a small pumice stone. "Whaddaya need?"

"I need to see the manager."

"And you are?" She asked him, raising her eyebrow and glancing at him like a bug that had crawled into bed with her.

"No need for the condescending looks," he said, getting defensive. "Where I come from, I'm typically ignored."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Yes, a young woman named Ada LaRue helped me get it, she said that it was handled."

"Oh, Ada! You know her?" The old woman asked him, her personality suddenly morphing into something - someone - totally different. "She's a tender soul, that one. Full of purpose and poise. Wonderful young lady."

"Yes, that's charming, she's wonderful, et cetera, et cetera, I just need to know if there is an appointment scheduled under the name Erik Wren or Ada LaRue."

The woman opened a cabinet and flipped through a stack of papers bound together with twine. "Yes, there is one appointment under Erik Wren . . . That you?"

"Yes, madame. That would be me."

"Can I see some identification?"

Erik gulped, his palms he could feel getting clammier by the second. "Sure," he said, but in a higher pitch than anticipated. He reached inside the bag he was carrying and pulled out official-looking documents with his pertinent information on them.

The woman looked them over, squinting to read the miniscule font, but gave up only a short time later, handing them back to Erik. "Okay, the manager is in a meeting currently, he'll be with you as soon as he can."

"That'll be a few hours of his life he won't get back," Erik said with a sardonic laugh.

"I take it you're familiar with running a business."

"Rather," Erik replied with a sarcastic smile.

"Well, while you're waiting, if you could find it in you to leave me alone and not touch anything, that would be marvelous."

"I'm sure it would," Erik mumbled, casting the old and patronizing woman a begrudged "thank you" and a smile, quietly slipping off into another room.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

The room Erik had ducked into had merely been one of opportunity. Its doorway had shown itself in a time of need, and he seized the meager window he had to go exploring in peace. What he found, though, was something far greater than he expected.

A concert hall. Completely void of any trace of human life besides himself - the way he liked it best. A stage stood erect and proud before him, beckoning him softly to come and visit. He tiptoed to the stage in nervous anticipation, passing rows and rows of seating. Though the concert hall wasn't as lavish as the Opera Populaire, he still thought the venue was refreshing and wonderful, and the fewer reminders of his other life, the better. Upon reaching the stage, he gripped the edge of it tight with his long, bony fingers and jumped, pulling himself up onto the stage with ease. What lay only a few paces ahead of him made his heart soar even higher.

A grand piano. Jet black and shiny, void of smudges - the way he liked it best. He approached the magnificent instrument slowly and silently, not uttering a single sound. A cushioned black bench was tucked under it, so he delicately slid it out from underneath and ran a hand over his coattails, smoothing them to himself as he swiftly sat down. His bony fingers flourished themselves in excitement as they brushed the pristine and polished ivory keys. He closed his dark eyes blissfully and inhaled through his nose, lifting his head in order to absorb the aura he was submerged in. He paused for a few seconds, then ducked down, pouring everything he had into the instrument before him. His fingers flying across the keys, he created an unearthly melody with just a few swift key strokes. His head moved fluently with his hands as he got lost in the rich sound of the grand piano and the music coming from it. The deep sound reverberated throughout the concert hall, seeping into Erik's heart and resonating through his body. He felt his heart pound to the beat of the music as he hammered out notes and delicately tapped others, creating an experience that banished every bad feeling from his heart and his mind. He was fast approaching his crescendo, completely enthralled in the thump of the pedals and the grace of the keys. The rhythm of the music ensnared his mind as he continued to play, hitting his crescendo and loving every second of it. His heart throbbed in his chest, and he could feel the music pounding in his diaphragm, but none of that mattered, so long as he could play. As he hit his final note, his fingers sprawled out, his hands drooped, and his head hung limp as he stared down at the black and white keys.

For the first time in a long time, he felt safe, secure, like no harm was to come at him. These thoughts relaxed him as he sat on the black cushioned bench, silently thinking what he dared not say out loud, for fear of it slipping out of his grasp. As he breathed in and out methodically, his thoughts suddenly slipped away like sand in an hourglass, like a dream you wake from and can't remember, as he heard a foreign noise.

A man who looked to be in his fifties, wearing a black suit-jacket, slacks, and an awestruck smile stood clapping at the back of the concert hall, but he started walking closer as Erik's head shot up in fright.

"Who are you?" Erik asked coldly, his eyes going from blissful to angered. He stood up abruptly and backed away from the professionally dressed man fast approaching.

"I'm the manager here, Frank Roth. I was told I had an appointment with a man by the name of 'Erik Wren'. I suppose I can only hope that that's you."

"Yes," he said warily, still backing away. "I'm Erik Wren."

"Why are you backing away? And what's with the mask?"

Erik gave this some thought as Frank mentioned it, as his heel kissed a music stand at the back of the stage and he tripped, falling backwards. His arms went behind him to catch his fall, but this did very little in the scheme of things. He landed on his back, the hardened stage giving him no reprieve. His tailbone screamed bloody agony as he scrambled to get back up on his feet. Once up, he dusted himself off, casting the manager a decisively dangerous glance.

"I don't appreciate being startled."

"I see that now," Frank said, "Are you alright? Do you need help-"

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Erik growled as he brushed any dust or dirt off his coattails before whipping around to prop the music stand back up on its legs. He whipped around once more to face the manager and approached the edge of the stage at a rapid pace. "What can I help you with?" Erik asked, still fuming.

"I need you first not to fall off the stage," Frank said, urging him to take a step back. "I need you alive."

"What for?" asked Erik, his eyes widening with a fear very familiar to him. _"Crap, I got mad at him, now he's mad at me, what's he gonna do to me?! He probably wants to bring me to his secret torture chamber - wait, no, what if he's anything like Firmin or Andre? Even if he had one, you could outsmart it, you're okay, this clown's got nothing on you-"_

"Would you be willing to play again?" Frank asked.

"No," Erik replied shortly.

"Why not?"

"Because I can't."

"Why not?"

"It's really very simple, I can't compose when I'm being hounded by a man who wants to play Twenty Questions!" Erik huffed impatiently. _"And, strrrrrike two! Done it again!"_

Frank stood dumbstruck for a moment, then sighed. "Fine. I must say, I was warned you were abnormal, but I didn't know it was _this_ bad."

"Thanks," Erik sneered.

"Mhm. On your resume you mentioned you can compose."

"So you actually read it?"

"Course I did, does that surprise you?"

"A little bit, but regardless, I can compose."

"And you can sure as hell play, I haven't heard anything like that before," said Frank, gesturing to the piano on the stage.

_"I guess that warrants a thank you . . .?" _Erik thought. He cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said quickly, tucking his hands behind his back in a way that his pinkie fingers on each hand stuck out. He bit his lower lip and rocked back and forth on his feet, nervosity seeping into every thought bouncing around in his head.

"Anyway," said Frank gruffly, "I was curious if you could do us here at the concert hall, and the whole city of New York, a favor."

"Oh, I actually have a really strong aversion to doing favors, you see, they never end well-"

"Nonsense. Help me, help you, boost this city's urban atmosphere and entertainment, and we all fare better!"

"Sounds like a load of post-war propaganda to me," said Erik apprehensively, still rocking on his feet.

"What do you want from me? We just got out of the freaking Civil War! Damn Confederates . . . You aren't one of them, are you?!"

"No, I'm from France," he said, taking a wary step back. "I want a job."

"Sorry?" Frank asked, his rambling interrupted.

"I want a job. Can you do that for me?"

Frank smiled widely and clapped his hands together happily. "That and more," he said, "I want you to be our composer for the symphony. We've needed a fresh perspective and some fresh notes for a good long while now. Not only that, if you'd be so willing, I think it would be great if you perhaps did piano concerts on the side. For extra pay, of course. Will you take my offer or leave it?"

"Only a fool would decline," Erik said offhandedly, "And let me assure you, Mr. Roth, I am no fool."

"So you accept?"

Erik paused for a brief moment, then closed his eyes and jumped off of the stage, landing quietly on his feet. He opened his eyes again, reluctantly stretched his hand out to Frank and said, "Jury's still out on the piano concerts," he paused again when he knew he had Frank puzzled, but smiled coyly and said, "Yes, Mr. Roth, I accept."

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

**Hey, hope you enjoyed the chapter, this one was indeed a challenge! I appreciate all the reviews/follows/favorites I've received and just wanted to say thanks again for those following/supporting the story. "Everything is connected" as the brilliant Detective Taylor puts it, and you'll soon see why. Let me know what you think!**

**Thanks a bunch! :)**

**~TPWG**


	5. The Basket of Life and Death

**Hey guys, I know I've been gone a while, so here's the skinny on what's been happening.**

**I, being me, had two research papers due and one final exam to study for within the past two weeks. Being procrastination-prone sucks. Thus, I haven't had time to cram in fanfiction, as much as I would have liked to. Then, if I crammed in fanfiction, it may not have been as good as it would have had I had time to read over it in my sane mind. So here it is, finally, I hope you enjoy it and don't hate me too much for going on hiatus, because, well, priorities take priority. Duh. **

**Hopefully, tinkmasked, this answers your question about the contents of the mysterious basket. **

**Thanks for your reviews and Happy Reading!**

**~TPWG**

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

Nadir was losing his head, darting around frantically as if that would clear his foggy mind. He slowly came into focus as one thought coursed through his mind like a raging river.

"_Where is my basket?"_

Nadir made no effort to be polite as he drunkenly shoved people out of his way, ducking his head to look at people's hands.

"Where is it?" He demanded, whipping around to get a good look at the crowd of potential thieves. They all looked equally guilty - or equally innocent. He was having a great deal of trouble discerning one from the other.

"Where is what, my Persian friend?" A thick German voice asked. Nadir slowly looked up and his eyes narrowed to slits.

"Audwin Albrecht," Nadir seethed, "you know good and well what!" He continued to fume, "Tell me, what's your middle name?"

"Alf," he replied, "Why do you ask such strange questions?"

"Because, Audwin _Alf_ Albrecht, if you took my basket and I find out you did, I will beat you within a centimeter of your miserable life, make you suffer beyond what you thought possible, and send you back to your mother begging for mercy! I will make you wish you never met me!"

Audwin took one look at the deranged Persian man and knew he would make good on his promise, so there was only one thing left for him to do.

Run.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

"I had no idea you were so athletic, my little Persian friend!" Audwin shouted over his shoulder as he ran.

"I had no idea you were so obtuse!" Nadir shouted in reply, "You should know not to patronize me when I'm the freaking Persian police!" Nadir quickened his pace as he chased after the obtuse German who, admittedly, had at least a foot on him. Nadir was quicker though. He ducked into a hallway on his left, running through and following it to the end where he ran into Audwin, side-tackling him to the ground.

Audwin attempted to fight him, but Nadir located a pressure point and pressed down hard. Audwin was suddenly zapped of his energy and strength, and he collapsed, relaxing involuntarily on the spot.

"Now tell me, little German, where is my basket?"

"Can't tell," Audwin panted, clearly not accustomed to Persian police tactics.

"Yes," Nadir growled through his teeth, pushing down on him harder, "you will."

"It's where you left it!" Audwin defended.

"Which was in my arms!" Nadir yelled, moving his foot to the pressure point and his hands to Audwin's throat. "If you do not wish for me to crush your windpipe, I suggest you tell me where _you _left it!"

"Wait, wait, you think _I _took it?" Audwin asked incredulously.

"Why the hell do you think I'm chasing you?"

"I don't know, whereabouts of the basket, I suppose."

"Good God! Where's a Punjab Lasso when you need one? Strangling your stupid mass is a lot more challenging with only my hands."

Landfall was made while Nadir was busy straddling Audwin, and Nadir knew that if Audwin stalled for much longer, the trip would have been for nothing. Nadir leaned in close to Audwin and breathed a warning in his ear.

"Tell me where that basket is right now and we'll leave the ship in peace. Don't tell me where it is, and it will become my personal mission to extract every ounce of information out of you that I can get, then label you as a fraud."

"You wouldn't," he said, his mouth agape.

"I would. Besides, killing you won't get me the information, even if it does grant me instant gratification. What good are you to me dead?" After that, he mumbled something that sounded like, "Not that you're much smarter alive than dead."

"Bedroom," Audwin succumbed hopelessly, "just let me off this damn ship."

Nadir deftly released him, simultaneously sliding off of him and running to the cabin they had shared. Once he reached the door he busted through it with his shoulder. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw his basket and ran to it, thoroughly checking its contents to verify that nothing had been stolen. He rustled the hodge-podge quilts that rested inside and sighed with relief when he was convinced that his possessions were still intact. As he rustled the quilts, a note fell out of their folds and flitted downward, eventually finding a resting place on the floor. Nadir, still holding the basket close, bent down and picked up the slip of paper, turning it over so he could read it. In neat handwriting, the note read:

"_I found you."_

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

Erik was walking briskly through the concert hall, reciting his to-do list to himself in song so he would remember it. He reached the stage in what seemed a few paces and once again neglected to use the stairs, jumping and pulling himself up onto the stage in one fell swoop. Smoothing his coattails, he let a huff escape his lungs and strode over to the piano, once again feeling its supernatural pull on him. He swiftly sat down on the black leather bench and commenced his song, letting himself be surrounded by and absorbed in the music.

He played passionately with nothing at all to disturb him, such as ignorant managers, patronizing receptionists, or pesky ballet girls, three things he found to be much too typical around both New York and Paris. Although the situation in New York was marginally better than Paris as far as he was concerned, he still noticed these things as one notices nails being dragged across a chalkboard with vengeful fury. Amid his train of thought, he stopped playing abruptly, scribbling something down on the sheet music in front of him in his elegant scrawl. About to resume playing, he smoothed his wig with both hands and gingerly made sure that his mask was in place. His fingers barely graced the ivory keys before he felt another presence in the vast hall. Erik's head slowly rose as he sat up ramrod straight.

"Who's there?"

Silence.

"It would be wise to reveal yourself now rather than accumulating my wrath."

Silence.

"I will figure out who you are, rest assured, since you don't seem too keen on letting me see you," he growled softly.

Silence.

"So be it," said Erik with a menacing tone. He gathered his sheet music, stood up, and turned around to leave when he heard a voice.

"Erik."

He whipped around and glanced towards the back of the theatre. "I should have known we'd meet again, Daroga," he said softly. "Though I must ask - what exactly brings you here? Am I just that irresistible?"

The Daroga laughed and said, "No, not all that irresistible, I have a pressing matter that I need to discuss with you."

"You couldn't have humored me at least a little?"

"Not likely, though I have humored you before, and I've saved your life before."

"And I yours. Now what are you _really_ here for? I'm sure it isn't just for menial chit-chat." Erik folded his arms across his chest, bracing himself for what was to come. He had no idea that he could in no way brace himself for what he was about to find.

"I'm here to deliver a message for you."

"A message would have arrived with the rest of the post. Now what is is you actually have for me?"

"That's the thing, my message had to be hand-delivered."

"Okay, so your message is of high importance. But _what is it?" _

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Yes, just tell me! You came across the freaking Atlantic ocean to tease me? Don't you have ANY better way to spend your time and money?"

"Actually, I was feeling lonely and the ride was free, so it's all good." Nadir smiled warmly, but Erik's temper just kept rising like mercury in a thermometer on a blazing hot summer day.

"You're impossible!" Erik shouted, gritting his teeth and getting angry. His eyes turned from a warm, dark chocolate color to an intense, fiery gold, but Nadir didn't shrink back.

"As are you . . . you've failed to mention my basket as well. I thought you were perceptive!"

Erik's eyes glowed brighter. "I didn't think I wanted to know."

"Maybe," Nadir said calmly, "it's about time you found out."

He strode up to the stage and set the nondescript basket on the glossy, polished, black floor in front of Erik and watched keenly as he glanced back and forth from Nadir to the basket several times.

"Well," said Nadir, "are you going to look inside?"

"Should I?"

"Well, to be honest, I didn't traverse the Atlantic ocean for 'menial chit-chat'."

Erik shot him a pointed look and tiptoed towards the basket, each step lighter than the one before it. He lifted a section of the puffy quilts gingerly with his thumb and his index finger, not liking the suspense but steeling himself for potential shock, desperately wanting to get this over with.

_"Maybe it isn't as bad as I'm making it out to be,"_ he thought.

As he lifted the blanket, his eyes caught a glimpse of something inside and he gasped, stumbling backwards in what seemed like slow-motion and tripping over his own two feet. He landed on his tailbone once again, hitting the stage with such force that it knocked his mask off his face, sending it flying in the air. His head was spinning and he could hardly think. His thoughts were running together at ninety miles and hour and his brain was functioning about as much as a bowl of spaghetti. His hands went up to his uncovered face, feeling every crevice and crease, every deformity, but not processing what he felt. His breathing became rapid, his throat became tight. He could do nothing but stare at the basket Nadir brought and hope that he was only dreaming. Because even though he braced himself for the unexpected, he couldn't begin to fathom what lay ahead of him.

In the basket was a infant, with a face just like his.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

**Boom! The cat's out of the bag now, or the baby is out of the basket. However you wish to phrase it is fine with me, but please let me know what you think of the story if you've got a minute or two to spare in the comment box below (like, just below here, literally, you should check it out). I appreciate every single review I receive, and thanks for your time when you read my writing. I have gratitude for you all I just can't express enough. **

**Thanks again guys, you mean a whole bunch to me.**

**~TPWG**


	6. The New Rose

**Hello! I am back from a particularly long hiatus, I'm terribly sorry, I simply was a mun without a muse. Forgive me, please forgive me. **

**Anyway, I have a little bit of story here for you, so I hope you all enjoy it, I had fun writing it once I got the inspiration! That was the tricky part... **

**A super huge thank you to guest, tinkmasked, ElauraGrave, River Price, and last but definitely not least, ShadowKissedDhampir! You are so supportive and you are what motivated me to get my lazy, uninspired self typing. Thank you.**

**As always, thanks a bunch to you all, and Happy Reading!**

**~TPWG**

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

Erik was not calming down at all, no matter how much Nadir tried to console him.

"Just relax, it'll all be okay," Nadir repeated.

"You . . . are starting to sound like . . . a broken record."

"I appreciate the compliment. Now calm down! For pity's sake, get your act together!"

"I can't do that," Erik replied between heavy breaths, his face white as ivory.

"Why not?"

"Is it really mine?"

"Without a doubt. And by the way, it's a _she_, not an _it_."

"And how do you not have any doubt in your mind? Hmm?"

"Because I was there! Alright? I know you, and I know that I was there when the baby was born! I had to rescue her immediately because I knew she would stir up trouble! I knew she'd follow in the same destructive patterns as you, my friend! I wanted to save her!"

"I'm so confused," Erik moaned, burying his uncovered face in his hands and squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them again, a tear slipped out and rolled down his marred cheek, making the tear-stain trail show up in the light. The look he gave Nadir was a hopeless one as his eyes returned to their normal shade of brown, a few gold flecks remaining suspended in his irises. His eyes were melancholy. His anger had dissipated. Now, all he felt was the hope draining from him.

"What do I _do _with it?" Erik asked, terrified.

"_She_, Erik, it is a _she_!"

"What do I do with her then?"

"It would appear as if you have a lot to learn."

"Well no shit," Erik snapped, glaring at Nadir.

"That attitude will get you nowhere."

"Obviously it's gotten me this far," he said impatiently, huffing and making a gesture to the stage around him.

"So it has, but I wasn't referring to affluence in society."

"Then what exactly were you referring to, Daroga?"

"The deeper meaning of life."

"I'm not positive I understand what you're saying," Erik said slowly.

"What's not to get?" Nadir asked him with a quizzical tone.

"Are you saying . . . do you want me to raise her?"

"Presumably what I was getting at," Nadir said tersely, folding his arms across his chest. "Or, as you so eloquently put it, no shit."

Erik groaned dejectedly, smacking his forehead. "Where is my mask?" He asked suddenly.

"It flew off when you fell."

"Where is it though?"

"Right here," Nadir said, waving his hand, the mask in his grip.

"So _you_ have it," Erik said, his hope diminishing even further. "I need it back."

"I like it, actually."

"Good, I'm glad you like it. I like it on my face, so give it back."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, that is so. Therefore, like the good, supportive friend that you are, you should definitely give it to me. Now."

"I think you should give the child some attention."

"Mask first, child next. Give it."

"Ah ah ah, I don't think so."

"I don't really give a damn what you think, so I'll just take my mask back now!" Erik swiftly rose to his feet and quick as lightning was standing over Nadir, his bony frame towering above Nadir's shorter and stockier one. Nadir stepped back a few paces but Erik was quicker than him. By the time Nadir had stepped back, Erik had snatched the mask out of his hand and pressed it back onto his face. Smoothing his wig back down to his head, he let out a breath and massaged his temples.

"Why, Daroga? You come all this way, hand me a baby that has a messed up face, tell me it's mine just because of the face, and you just think I'm going to buy that crap and raise her?"

"I know it's yours," Nadir responded quietly.

"How? You gave a sorry explanation on that one, if you don't mind me saying it."

"I was there, I know she is your child!"

"But you aren't telling me HOW YOU KNOW!"

Just as Nadir was about to respond, the child in the basket started to cry. She grew louder and louder as the adults in the room kept yelling at each other until Nadir put a finger to his lips.

"Erik, shh."

"WHAT?! You don't just 'shh' me, you know better!"

"Shh! Someone's upset."

Erik turned around to face the stage and heard wailing coming from the basket. Erik turned around again to face Nadir and got a mild shove towards the stage, Nadir shooing him off to go take care of the malcontent infant.

"What do you want me to do? I haven't a clue what to do with her, I don't understand what's going on here, I can't process anything, and my brains are a veritable pile of useless mush." Erik thought for a moment. "Wait, wait wait wait wait wait, you brought the child here, why don't you take care of her? It works out, you've had time to get attached, you know how to handle infants, you're obviously better suited for the task than me, dear Daroga." Erik smiled half-heartedly at his conclusion and just as he was about to take off, Nadir laid his troubles out on the table.

"Erik! I'm nowhere NEAR through with you!" He said through gritted teeth. Straightening his astrakhan cap, he walked over to the stage, picked the basket up, turned around, and walked back to Erik. "Take the child out of the basket."

"She seems perfectly content, I don't see why I should disturb her-"

"Take. Her. Out. Or. I. Swear. You'll. Regret. It."

Erik saw the intense glare on Nadir's face, which didn't happen often, so Erik threw his hands up in mock surrender and gently rustled the blankets as he folded them back to expose the crying child.

Tear-stained, red in the face, disfigured on one side, but simply beautiful on the other. She had wisps of blonde hair that clung to her scalp for dear life. Her tiny little fingers attempted to shield her eyes from the bright lights in the concert hall and her pudgy little legs waved around as she squirmed in the blankets. Erik cautiously reached down into the basket, wary that something would go wrong. As she moved her little arms from her face, Erik saw her eyes.

Her eyes were hazel, with warm brown tones that looked just like his, and green hues that reminded him of what it felt like to be happy. He gasped slightly at this, then looked up at Nadir. Nadir gave a reassuring nod, and Erik held the child a little closer to himself, his fear slacking off and intensifying at the same time. He smoothed a wisp of her blonde hair back gently with his finger and gazed at her with a feeling that was completely new to him - genuine fondness. The infant's crying abated with Erik's gentle touch, and he keenly picked up on this. Erik, after just a few minutes of holding the child, broke into a whole-hearted smile. He reached out and touched the tip of her nose, making her giggle. Looking up at Nadir, he asked,

"Does she have a name?"

"No."

"No one bothered to name her?"

"No. I thought I'd leave that to you."

"Well," said Erik, "this is frightening. What do I do? How do I decide on a name? Why was this left up to me? Oh God! What if I give her a name and later on she hates it? What if-"

"Relax," Nadir said, trying to get Erik to calm down. "Yes, it's a responsibility, yes, choose well, but it isn't worth hyperventilating over!"

Erik glanced up at Nadir, swallowed the lump in his throat, and tried to think.

"How about . . ." Erik started nervously, "Erika Rose?"

Just as Erik was waiting for his idea to get shot down, the infant giggled and gave him a big toothless grin.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say she likes it," Nadir noted after several seconds of silence, smiling softly.

"Erika Rose it is then," Erik whispered to her. "Hello, little one, you're home now."

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

**So, is anyone else just gushing right now? Let me know what you think in the comments, and I will try to write more soon. ****Thanks for reading! :)**

**~TPWG**


	7. The Master of Illusion

**Hey guys! I may be a "stranger" now, I know I haven't updated in a LONG time, and for that I extend my sincerest apologies. I just got inspiration today, and I don't like writing stories when I'm uninspired, because it's slow, painful, and dreadfully boring work. I figured that you may not want a dreadfully boring story, so I've been plotting, and I finally came up with something good. Hopefully you can forgive me for the super long hiatus, hopefully this bit of story is worth the wait. **

**Thanks to my followers, favorites, and reviewers, I really appreciate the feedback and support. Happy reading! **

**~TPWG**

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

Erik took one look at Nadir and Nadir looked back at him, probably trying to gauge what his next move would be. He wrapped Erika Rose up in the blankets that she came in and he bolted. He raced out of the concert hall as quick as he could, dodging people, questions, and anything that stood in his way. As he left, Ada spotted him running out, and she decided to tag along.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

_Ada POV:_

I only just noticed him as his coattails flew behind him, long, black, and whipping around as he broke camp, practically running out of the theatre. He always struck me as peculiar, don't get me wrong, but this was particularly peculiar, thus, I had to check it out. I saw him as he thrust open the door with one hand, but it looked as if he had something in the other. I put my violin back in its case and took off behind him, bursting through the door and looking both ways down the street to see if I could find him.

I hadn't anticipated that following him would be so difficult. It was as if he vanished once he made his way through the door. It was weird. He was nowhere to be found. I even asked around some to find out if anyone had seen someone of his likeness, which would have been fairly easy to tell. After all, not many people are blessed with his height, or run around wearing a white mask over half of their face. Since I couldn't find him anywhere in the street, I figured I'd intercept him at the apartment.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

_Erik POV:_

I wasn't going to stick around, not with this huge curveball, plot twist, cruel game, whichever term you prefer to coin having been thrown at me. The fact that the child was mine was hard enough to believe. According to my sources, I'm not exactly what one would call a "ladies man". Trying to figure out who could have possibly had the kid was mind boggling, as far as I knew, I hadn't even lost my virginity.

_"That in itself is sad,"_ my mind told me, much to my dismay. I seem to be my only company, so my mind racing and insulting me was the norm. Occasionally I do talk to myself, just to put off the illusion that I'm not lonely. I think what happens more often than not is people getting this crazy idea that I'm psychotic.

So I bolted.

Like a bullet out of a gun.

Fled.

Like fire was at my feet.

Ran.

Like I didn't care to look back.

Far away.

Because now two big cities had chewed me up and spit me out.

Far away from judgment, harassment, and pain was the only place I wanted to go. Taking off into the street, I made sure that our faces were covered before I looked up at anyone. I ran fast through the streets, pushing through the throngs of people commuting.

"Dear god! How many people live here, exactly?"

"Too many for my taste," a stranger said behind me. I turned and looked at him, acknowledging his presence, then ran even faster, cutting through crowds like butter. It was hard to think - too cold, too many people, too many thoughts bouncing off the inside of my head. I tried to think, but no coherent thought would form. I'd get one word, or some random phrase, or a name, but beyond that, nothing.

I think I'm somewhat legend for running away from things. Whether it be gypsies, opera stars, or the Shah of Persia, you name it, I can run away from it. Nonetheless, I wasn't quite sure how I was going to run away from this. I held Erika close to me, wrapped up in blankets in my arms. She wasn't crying, which was good, she just nestled into me, in a way. No one has done that to me before, so naturally my response was awkward. Taking Erika and holding her at arm's length, I looked at her with apprehension. Making eye contact, I asked her,

"What are you doing?"

"Eeeh?" She replied, tilting her head to the side, mimicking me. I glowered at her temporarily and pulled her back to me. I felt her little form shivering against mine, so I made sure she was completely covered in the blankets, doubling them up in spots to keep the warmth in. Holding her with both arms and wrapping us in my cloak, I gently pushed open the door to the apartment building with the side of my arm. There was an instantaneous gust of warm air that flooded me, and I soaked it up, knowing Erika was doing the same.

"Ah, hello Mister . . . ?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Mister Doesn't matt-" the man greeting me paused. "Now what kind of name is that?"

"Doesn't matter."

"I think you're hiding something."

"Do you?" I asked him shortly. My patience for this idiot was quickly beginning to ebb.

"I think you need a nice warm hug."

"Uh, how about a big fat NO?"

"Aw, I still think you need one."

"Think it all you want, just don't implement it, otherwise you might find yourself on the receiving end of my wrath."

"Definitely need one."

I beheld the overly cheerful man with livid golden eyes. The man backed away, thoroughly shocked by this. "Your eyes were, they were brown! Just a minute ago! I saw it!"

"If you wish to see them brown again I suggest you don't speak of the hugs henceforth. Understood?"

The man nodded, the rest of his body paralyzed.

"Good," I quipped as I strode up to the elevator, letting myself in and shutting the door behind me.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

As soon as the door had shut, Erik lazily slumped against the far wall, staring at his reflection in the wall opposite him. Almost at his breaking point, he hesitantly peeked under his mask for a moment, then ripped it from his face completely.

"How did this happen?" He asked his reflection. "What did you do?" The reflection seemed to shrug at him. He ran a hand down the deformed side of his face as his body shook with exhaustion and fear.

Replacing his mask, he stole a glance down at the fragile infant in his arms, not knowing what he was going to do with her. He was terrified. The more he studied her, though, the more familiar she seemed. It was strange that he saw almost two different faces, until he looked up at his reflection, realizing that she wasn't the only one with two different facades. He was having trouble pinpointing who exactly he saw in her besides himself, knowing that the deformed side came from him.

The other side was too angelic to be his. Her soft, baby pink lips were slightly larger than most, but not as swollen as his. Her skin resembled smooth porcelain on one side, but damaged leather on the other. Scars littered the right side of her face, some deep, some shallow. Her right eye looked normal, but the skin surrounding it was swollen slightly. She had no right eyebrow, but a cute, button-like nose and a pair of fierce hazel eyes that gazed up at him with curiosity. Her left cheek was lightly blushing as he studied her, almost as if she knew what he was doing. Little wisps of pale blonde hair protruded from her scalp, which was, except for one fissure on the right side, normal.

When he reached his floor, he opened the door and sped out of the lift, down the hall, and to his door, quickly locating the key and inserting it in the lock. Pushing open the door, he hurriedly closed it behind himself and rushed to find a safe place to put Erika. Finding nothing of the sort, he resigned to putting her in the middle of his bed, wrapping her up in her many blankets, and keeping close tabs on her from the next room over.

Reaching the bathroom, he turned the faucet on and laid his mask on the counter. Cupping his hands under the stream of water, he splashed his face repeatedly, trying to make himself think.

"Whose is she? How is she mine?" He asked himself repeatedly, splashing himself in the face with handfuls of water every time he didn't reach a conclusion.

"Better yet, how can dear Daroga even waltz into my life and drop her off like he's sending her to summer camp? THIS IS NOT SUMMER CAMP!" He shouted angrily. "He can't just do this to me, how can he do this to me? I'm losing my mind trying to figure out how I'm connected to this kid!" His eyes widening, he listened intently for some sort of noise. Hearing nothing, he quickly slapped the mask back on his face and rushed into the bedroom to find Erika on the edge of the bed. She inched up further and started to fall off the side of the bed in slow motion.

"NO!" Erik yelled, racing to the bed, swooping to catch the falling Erika in his long, graceful arms, just in the nick of time. He brought her up to eye level with himself and stared her down for half a minute.

"How," he slowly questioned, "did you get out of the blankets? You were wrapped up in maybe four of them!"

Erika started to cry fitfully, squeezing her eyes shut and forcing hot tears to spill over onto her cheeks.

"No, no, why are you crying? Make it stop! Don't do that! Why are you doing that? Stop it!" Erik started bouncing her up and down in his arms, suddenly remembering that some people did that with their kids and it worked. Unfortunately, it didn't on Erika. "Sh-h-h, stop it, don't do this to me . . ."

He thought he heard something strange happening in another room, and his head shot up. Touching Erika's nose and lips delicately with his pinkie finger, he motioned for her to be quiet. Her final tears fell and her crying quickly abated, much to Erik's amazement. Ears trained, he silently stepped into the main room of the apartment. His eyes scanned the whole of the room, not missing a single nook, cranny or crevasse. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just when he thought he must have been going insane, he saw the doorknob jiggle. His eyes widened even more as he devised a plan to get out of the apartment with haste. Without going through the door. Or leaving Erika. His eyes darted from side to side, then steeled themselves, straight ahead of him. He whipped his cape around him just as the door opened, and the intruder entered to find nothing out of the ordinary. Erik was gone.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

Ada shifted her violin case on her back as she pushed through the door and out into the street. Waving at people she knew, she smiled briefly as she brushed past them. She would normally stop and chat, but today was different - she didn't have time.

Erik had left abruptly on his first day of work. Even with strangers like him, leaving work that early on the first day was not a good sign.

Following her gut instinct, she headed further down the street towards the apartment building. Pushing an errant lock of blonde hair out of her face, she pressed on through thick crowds of people to get where she was going. As she was about to cross the street, someone tapped her vigorously on the shoulder. She whipped around to face a peculiar Persian man in an Astrakhan cap. He smiled curtly, then asked,

"Have you seen a man, several inches taller than me, wearing a white mask recently?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"You're looking for him?"

"Yeah, you?"

"Yes, yes I am, as it happens."

"Maybe you can help me find him. Which way would he go?"

"How should I know? I only just got here!"

"Why are you so intent on finding him then, if you don't know him?"

"I never said I didn't know him, I just said I had only recently come here!"

"Well then where would he go? Do you know anything about his habits? Behavior patterns? Emotional ties?"

"There aren't many of the latter."

"Okay," Ada thought, "Maybe . . . Do you think he's just gone home? Perhaps he needed a break?"

"He'd just started work."

"I know that!" Ada hollered at him. "I didn't know if he was one of those people that took breaks often."

"No, he doesn't have dedication issues."

"Good, because honestly, I was beginning to get pissed for putting my ass on the line for him so he could get a job if he was going to neglect it."

"Don't worry about that. Let's just find Erik and we'll get this whole mess straightened out."

"What mess is this, exactly?"

"I'll let him tell you when we find him."

"Mhm," Ada hummed skeptically, seeming unconvinced.

"Listen, everything will become a lot clearer once we actually find Erik, understood?"

"Mhm," Ada hummed again.

"Where were you going?"

"To my apartment. Why, you going to follow me there?"

"I was hoping you'd stay out and help me look for our mutual friend."

"My apartment is right across the hall from him, why don't we start there?"

"WHAT? This whole time we've been talking, you never thought to mention that you live next to him?!"

"You never asked!"

"I assumed it would have been pertinent information!"

"Don't assume things, and learn to ask sooner! I'm not going to give you the story of my life on a street corner when the only thing we have in common is a tall masked man whom I hardly know!"

Nadir looked at her with a pointed expression. "Let's just go to the apartment."

"Probably a good idea."

With that, the two crossed the street at a run and didn't slow down until they reached the double doors of the apartment building.

"What floor do you live on?" Nadir demanded urgently.

"Just get in the elevator."

"Why do you call them that?"

"Call what, what, exactly?"

"Why do you call elevators, elevators?"

"I dunno, elevator, elevate, why?"

"I just thought 'lift' was more suitable."

"We're discussing this _now_?"

"Just a thought that happened to cross my mind."

"Get. In. The. Elevator."

Nadir quickly jerked his head to the side and said, "Ladies first."

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

They reached their floor and stepped out of the elevator.

Lift.

Elevator.

Lift.

Shut up.

Very well.

After they stepped out of the elevator, they hurried down the hall and Nadir pulled a thin strip of metal out of his pocket, attempting to jimmy the lock.

Ada watched for a minute, amused with Nadir. Then she heard someone crying. After she'd had enough of watching him get nowhere with the lock, she caved in.

"Move over."

"What are you insinuating, that your lock-picking skills are superior to my own?" He asked, mildly perturbed. "I was on the Persian police force for several years!"

"And I have a key."

Nadir opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He stepped to the side, gestured to the doorknob with his hand, and said, "By all means."

"Thank you."

"I suppose you're one for giving information only on a need-to-know basis, am I correct?"

"More or less," she agreed as she turned the knob and opened the door.

When the two burst through the doorway, they looked around the apartment, confused.

"I could have sworn I heard crying in here . . ."

They searched the entire apartment, but didn't find a soul.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

**Okay guys, what did you think? Let me know in the comments, I love feedback!  
**

**Thanks, and happy first day of autumn!**

**~TPWG**


	8. The Law of Inertia

**Hello again! I know, I know, for those who follow me, it's been quite a while now, but hey! I'm back. I hibernated. Now, with some coffee in hand, some inspiration in my head, and an itch I can only scratch through writing, I give you chapter eight. **

**A dear friend took me to see Phantom of the Opera live on stage, and it was one of the most awe-inspiring things I have ever done in my life. It was a night I will never forget, so for that, thank you. **

**Speaking of the live show, it was magnificent! Thus, I have and will continue to draw from the well of inspiration there. **

**So enough about inspiration, let's get to it! As always, those who review, thank you from the bottom of my toes, and happy reading! :)**

**~TPWG**

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

_**Paris, 1871 . . .**_

He walked briskly, wrapping himself in his cape as he went to the one place that he knew he could seek refuge without anyone else bothering him. He went underground.

Down, down, he ventured, deeper and deeper until he was positive that no one would find him. Here he could truly unwind, take his mind off of his own paranoia and think about the things that truly vexed him, things that consumed so much of his energy. He smoothed his wig back meticulously with both hands, a nervous tick that he'd acquired over the years. He adjusted his mask and ran a hand over the unmarred side of his face, slowly easing his conscience and his pain. His mind had been clouded lately, and this mental fog was damaging his nerves. In anger, he beat his clenched fists against a damp wall, cursing himself repeatedly for letting his mind wander to his lost, but not forgotten, angel.

"She doesn't NEED ME! Why won't you cursed thoughts just leave me be?!" Erik shouted angrily into the intricate tunnels, listening closely as his words echoed back to him.

"Perhaps, Erik, they don't want to."

Erik spun around fast enough to give himself whiplash as he raced to where the voice sounded from. Something about it seemed familiar. In the blink of an eye, Erik was towering over another man, a bit shorter than himself, Persian, that was looking onward at him with genuine concern.

"I suppose your temper has not 'mellowed with age', eh?"

"Daroga?" Erik asked incredulously, tilting his head to the side as if to get a better angle.

"Good eye. Glad you still recognize me, gives me some reprieve for invading your personal space."

"It might," Erik seethed, unsure of how to deal with this cumbersome intrusion. "Although if it's reprieve that concerns you, I suggest you have something rather important to tell me-"

"Important, eh?" The Daroga challenged.

"Earth-shattering," Erik glowered, grinding his teeth together and widening his eyes.

"Very well," Daroga complied, "Christine and the Viscount de Chagny are to be married tomorrow, and I thought you may have wanted to know."

"Me, want to know about that bloody Viscount marrying the one woman I loved? You must be joking. Besides, why in the burning blazes of hell would they invite me to their wedding? It's supposed to be a happy occasion, remember, Daroga?"

"Have you gotten dense? I didn't say they _invited _you, I just told you when it is." Daroga pulled an invitation out of his pocket in a nonchalant fashion that contained the pertinent details. Erik snatched it away from him and pored over it with sudden interest and care.

"I see your manners are still not quite where they should be."

"Brilliant observation, Daroga, now would you kindly _shut up_ so I can read this?"

"My case in point. Exhibit A: Erik's atrocious-"

"I said _kindly_, why can't you leave me alone?"

"What, the Angel of Music can't have a Guardian Angel?" Daroga teased.

"Jury's still out on that one," Erik mumbled, his head in the wedding invitation. "How many people will be here?"

"Where? Here, there are only two of us-"

"At the wedding, dear Daroga," Erik spat, his smile a facade.

"Not sure. Hey, are you hungry?"

"Don't try to change the subject. How did you get this invitation?"

"I got it from a friend."

"And why do I ask you questions that I need answered?"

"Because you know deep down inside that you need me, Erik."

"Sure, if that makes you feel better."

"C'mon, say it, you need me."

"Hah! No, I won't."

"I'll help you immensely if you just say those three little words. You. Need. Me."

"You need me, Daroga. Better?"

"Not quite, reverse the order of your sentence."

"How do you think you can help me, Daroga?"

"I've done it before, have I not?"

"Indeed, but that was a long time ago. I may have bested you as far as help is concerned."

Daroga frowned for a moment. "So you think you can help yourself? Very well, I'll just leave you to your own devices, since you're perfectly capable of 'helping yourself' in dire situations," Daroga turned on his heel and started walking in the direction opposite Erik, counting down in his head and gradually slowing down until he said:

"Daroga!"

"Yes, my fickle friend?" Daroga smiled almost undetectably at his victory, and Erik quickly picked up on this.

"Alright, if you want to gloat, I won't even bother-"

"Oh, I'm not gloating, just happy that it is possible for you to ask for help. That's all."

"Alright, have it your way. If I'm ever going to let her go, it's tomorrow. The time is fast approaching, I realize that. Even so, can you HELP ME? The pain is practically killing me, I'm an emotional wreck, which is just plain not like me, and I'm having mood swings, and, and she - she's invading my mind, Daroga! You must understand, this isn't natural!" He buried his face in his hands and tried to moderate his rapid and unsteady breathing.

"Isn't natural, eh? Are you suggesting that _you_ didn't seep into _her _thoughts, give her mood swings, stick her between a rock and a hard place when you tried to make her choose between her Angel and her lover?"

"How did you know about that?" Erik growled, his eyes lighting up gold in fury.

"I have my sources."

"You are unbelievable."

"As are you," Daroga retorted, his smile a bit smug. "Hell, they even call you the 'Opera Ghost'! What could be more 'unbelievable' than some Parisian folklore?"

"Enough!" Erik shouted, squeezing his eyes shut. "Enough verbal abuse for the day! As a matter of fact, why don't we pick up where we left off in the morning, maybe then I'll have had the time to build up an impervious wall of cunning jabs to divert your senseless derisions!" Throwing his arms down forcefully to his sides, he continued to stare the aging Daroga down in anguish.

"A wise idea," Daroga acquiesced, putting his hands up in mock surrender. "Especially since I'm rather tired, I need to be getting home."

Erik let out a defeated sigh and smacked his forehead with his sweating palm. "Do you _not _detect sarcasm?"

"On several occasions, I must act as if I don't - it's the only way I can get you to listen."

Erik removed his hand from his face and fixed both eyes on the Daroga. After a fleeting moment of apologetic glances, he bowed his head and looked at the ground. "Do you mind if I keep this?" He asked, holding up the pristine white wedding invitation.

"Nah," Daroga replied, "I've got several more lying around at home."

Erik looked on in disbelief, letting his eyes follow the mysterious Persian as he walked away, his footsteps echoing in the dank underground corridor.

"Until tomorrow, au revoir, Erik. And good night."

His words rang through the tunnels as he disappeared into darkness.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

**_New York City, 1872 . . ._**

_Erik POV:_

Reality and fantasy seemed to blend together, making them indiscernible. I didn't know if I was caged in a hallucination, or cloaked in a living nightmare. My past and present were getting jumbled together, and weird memories popping up at random was something that I know I didn't need. I couldn't separate my imagination from what was actually happening, and it was beginning to take its toll.

I hadn't kept accurate time, but I assume that I had been on the road in some way, running, for the past hour. My muscles were fatigued; my legs were burning from the inside out from carrying me so far, and my arms from holding this kid, which no substantial evidence has proven her to be mine. You know, besides the messed up half of her face. That little thing. Maybe it is beyond my grasp, but why or how she came about is a total mystery. I'm miserable. A veritable mess. Every glimmer of hope for redemption I have gets obliterated and I don't even get to apologize before getting forced onward to bleaker things. They certainly appear shinier at first glance. Unfortunately, novelty fades.

I wasn't quite keen on Nadir simply saddling me with her and leaving, either. To an extent it seemed very unlike him. He isn't the impulsive type. That's my job.

Then again, bringing her to me from wherever they were doesn't exactly convey irrational or impulsive behavior. I was last in France, and crossing the Atlantic, locating me, all while trying to care for a disfigured infant isn't what I'd deem reckless.

_"Are you really justifying Daroga's actions?"_ I asked myself, afraid of the answer. _"Maybe I am."_

"Maybe I am."

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

_Ada POV:_

"You know, your friend is a real challenge," I said, loud enough for the Persian dude to hear.

"He's your friend too, you can't completely dump him off on me."

"Why not?"

"I can't be held responsible for him all the time, he gets into too much trouble."

"That so? Well, that's perfect, now my ass is on the line because I vouched for him."

"For what?"

"For a job. He was musically inclined, I work at the concert hall here, I play violin in the symphony-"

"That explains the violin case."

"Pretty much," I replied, "I thought it would be a perfect fit, and now he's gone without a trace. Literally." I examined the window, running my fingertips along the frame to check for anything unusual and checking the glass for pressure or breaks. "He hasn't left any sign as to where he might be, or where he might go, yet I heard someone in here only seconds before we broke in."

"That's Erik for you."

"Once again, you speak like you know him, the question is, how well?"

"Better than I care to."

"Care to explain?"

"Not a chance."

I clapped my hands together and dusted them off on my legs. "We're really getting places, aren't we?"

"I see you wield the sarcasm."

"Of course, I'm not quite sure what I'd do without it."

"Naturally," the Persian replied, his voice smooth as the glass window pane in Erik's bedroom, old, weathered, but controlled and refined.

"What are you insinuating?"

"Merely that I do not even know your name, yet now we're partners in some sort of investigation."

I tossed this thought around for a moment. "The name's Ada LaRue."

The Persian straightened his astrakhan cap and offered his hand. "Nadir Khan. Pleasure to finally meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine."

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

He maneuvered through the streets, his internal compass kicking in. If only it worked for spatial _and_ emotional direction. He could have used that too at this point. He barely had time to watch his breath turn to ice as it left his lips; he was running too fast. However, he was quickly losing steam, and he knew it full well. His large brown eyes darted all around him, up, down, left, and right. He saw a little alley down the street to his right, so he ran and ducked into it, immediately slumping against the wall and letting himself sink to the ground in agony.

"Newton was right," Erik said, unwrapping his cloak and looking at the little face inside it.

"Eh?" The little face said back.

"You aren't familiar with Newton?"

She gurgled, then flashed him a toothless grin.

"He came up with three laws on gravity, the Law of Inertia says that objects in motion tend to stay in motion, unless acted on by an outside force."

She balled her fists and scrunched her forehead.

"Well, I couldn't run forever. That's the thing about gravity, it weighs you down." He poked the tip of her nose. "And so do you."

She stuck her tongue out at him, and he gasped.

"What was that for? Hmm?" He scolded.

She smiled in reply.

"You don't talk much, do you?" He sighed and rested her against his chest, using his free hands to slick his hair back and massage his forehead. "Guess not, little one."

Erik was cold, shivering from head to toe, out of breath.

For what, though? What was he running from? Why did he elect to leave in the first place? Now that he had left, could he go back? Not a chance. Never stop running forward. But why?

Erik drummed his fingers on the cobblestone street and hummed to himself, seventeen different thoughts bouncing through his head. He let himself drift off, and slowly let those seventeen thoughts weave together.

_It coddles and it bites,_

_It gets inside your head,_

_It pushes you around,_

_It's never good in bed,_

_It warps any good thought you have,_

_Never thinking twice,_

_It splits your personality,_

_Into naughty and into nice,_

_Over time it makes you weary,_

_Makes you callused, burned, and bruised,_

_Makes the one good thing you had,_

_Leave you cold and feeling blue,_

_Never should you ask, _

_And never should it tell,_

_Of the stories that you know,_

_Of this Angel in Hell._

_What am I?_

I am Fear.

/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\

**So what did you think? How's my poetry? What was with that flashback? Let me know you loved it by leaving me a review, and as always, thank you for taking the time to read my work. Until next time, lovelies, au revoir! I'll try to keep the gap a little shorter this time around. **

**As always, thanks a bunch! :)**

**~TPWG**


End file.
